Looking into the Sun: A Novel of the Syrian Conflict

By Todd Tavolazzi

Angus Conn has seen more than his share of human calamity as a seasoned foreign correspondent, but reporting on the Syrian conflict kicked him in the emotional gut. After the ruthless Syrian regime cut off power, water, medical aid, and all other supplies to the decimated village of Al Waer, in the besieged outskirts of Homs, Angus is presented

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pandamoon Publishing
• Release date: May 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997135169

Todd Tavolazzi

Todd grew up in San Diego, California where he enlisted in the Marine Corps in 1991. He served in the Marine Corps Reserve as an Infantry Scout and Light Armored Vehicle Crewman at Camp Pendleton, California, before he attended the U.S. Naval Academy (Class of 1998) where he earned a Bachelor of Science in History. After graduation, he was commissioned as an Ensign in the U.S. Navy and served as a Surface Warfare Officer onboard a supply ship stationed in Bremerton, Washington, before he was granted a transfer into Naval Aviation. He earned his Navy "Wings of Gold" in 2002 and flew both the MH-53E Sea Dragon and MH-60S Knighthawk helicopters. He earned a Master of Arts in Diplomacy from Norwich University where he studied Europe and the Middle East extensively. He also served with the U.S. Sixth Fleet in Naples, Italy (2011-2014), where he spent time studying international relations, global strategy, and regional conflicts throughout Europe and the Middle East. It was on this tour of duty that Todd saw the horrific toll the Syrian conflict was taking on innocent civilians, particularly, Syrian children. His research drove him to write his debut novel, LOOKING INTO THE SUN, to raise awareness and garner support for Syrian children. He and his publisher are donating a percentage of proceeds to Save the Children. Todd is still serving on active duty in the U.S. Navy and lives in Virginia with his wife, Bonnie, and their two children.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Author’s Note

Dedication

Chapter

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Pandamoon Books

About the Author

Glossary

LOOKING INTO

THE SUN

A NOVEL OF THE SYRIAN CONFLICT

by Todd Tavolazzi

© 2016 by Todd Tavolazzi

This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known news reports, history, events, situations, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Any similarity in this book to a living person is unintentional and the author has made every effort to not identify or defame any party. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

www.pandamoonpublishing.com

Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing.

Cover Art Direction by Matthew Kramer, Pandamoon Publishing

Cover Illustration by Fletcher Kinnear, Pandamoon Publishing

Editing by Zara Kramer, Rachel Schoenbauer, Nicole Tone, and Daphne Tuccitto, Pandamoon Publishing

Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC

ISBN 13: 978-0-9971351-6-9

Author’s Note

I wrote Looking into the Sun in my off time while I was assigned as an operational planner to the U.S. Sixth Fleet staff in Naples, Italy, from April to August 2014. When I arrived at my new assignment, in September 2011, the Arab Spring was well underway. Syrian protestors had joined Tunisian, Libyan, and Egyptian protestors in voicing their displeasure with their government. The resulting unrest in Syria became a serious concern for the U.S. Central Command, as well as the U.S. European Command and its naval component command, the U.S. Sixth Fleet.

I was one of many operational planners to study the effect the Syrian conflict was having on our European partners. During my research, from unclassified open source material, I was appalled at the deteriorating situation in Syria and particularly its effect on Syrian civilians caught up in the violence. For the most part, there was only mainstream news coverage when chemical weapons were found to have been used in the conflict (which tapered off after only a short time) and when ISIS began to gain ground in northern Iraq and northeastern Syria.

In the course of my research, I found that there were many freelance journalists who had smuggled themselves into Syria to bravely report what no one else could, after Bashar Al-Assad closed his borders to foreign correspondents soon after the violence began. The stories by freelance journalists working for Vice News or on their own were astounding. The video proof of the suffering of the average citizen in Syria was heart-wrenching, especially the awful plight of the children. I saw video reports of children that were blown up by the Assad regime in their indiscriminate bombing where helicopters would push barrels packed with explosives out of their cargo bays on neighborhoods suspected to be rebel strongholds. There were also video reports of starving families who could not be resupplied because the regime had cut off all services to their neighborhoods in a cruel play to starve out their own people who they perceived were harboring rebel groups.

The videos of the innocent children who were being shot, starved, gassed, or blown up drove me to write Looking into the Sun. I knew there was not much I could do in my position as a U.S. military officer to effect any real change, so I decided to compile my research and weave real case studies into a novel. Through that effort, I would attempt to put a coherent face on the horrible situation the world seemed to be ignoring. Only recently, with reports of refugee drownings, their push across Europe, and potential ISIS terrorists hiding amongst the fleeing masses, has the refugee problem been addressed in the mainstream media, despite the fact that the situation had been going on to some extent since the fighting began in November 2011.

My focus in Looking into the Sun was intentionally narrow. I had three simple goals: (1) raise widespread awareness of the sacrifices and risks freelance journalists take to bring us the stories the mass media machine doesn’t seem to have time for, (2) acknowledge the ongoing child suffering in Syria since November 2011 and, most importantly, (3) remind the average reader that there are credible and effective ways to help these innocent children.

My publisher, Zara Kramer at Pandamoon Publishing, and I discussed what we could do to directly help the Syrian children. We mutually decided to each donate a percentage of the profits of the sale of this book to the most important organization providing real relief in the area. I am honored to have the partnership of the selfless souls at Save the Children as we work together to provide Syrian children (and all suffering children throughout the world) the tangible, loving care they need and deserve. I thank you personally for contributing to this effort by purchasing this book. If you would like to make an additional donation, please visit www.savethechildren.org. Remember, every little thing we do makes a difference, but you first MUST ACT. Please make a difference today!

Todd Tavolazzi

U.S. East Coast

November 2015

Dedication

For the innocent children of Syria and the fearless journalists who risk their lives around the world to bring us the truth.

LOOKING INTO

THE SUN

Chapter 1

Al Assi River

Syria-Lebanon border

May 2, 2013

I felt the shock wave of the bullet that snapped so close to my head it singed my scalp. A quick succession of several more bullets impacted the dirt a few feet to my right. The moonless night made it impossible to see Rafi only a foot to my left. The same darkness that disoriented me also kept us invisible to the men shooting at us.

The night resembled a black canvas splashed with the disciplined single file of green tracer fire. The mesmerizing beauty of the night was shattered by indiscriminate sparks spewing from the heavy weapons firing from a few hundred meters behind us. The tsunami of adrenaline that saturated my blood made my eyes shoot their own white tracers that ricocheted inside my eyeballs. I strained my vision to pick out the next spot I would aim for when the shooting let up.

A bright flash illuminated the ground in front of us like a flashbulb, and I chose the base of an olive tree ten meters away as my next target. The flash disappeared but its ghost lingered in my vision and made it even harder to see.

Rafi, that tree. Follow me.

Okay, he said from the darkness next to me.

I shot up the instant the firing stopped and pumped my legs until I felt I had covered the distance to the tree. I held my hand out in front of me when I figured I was close, but managed to find the tree with my face. The force of my momentum knocked me flat on my back. I actually thought for a second that I’d been shot.

I heard Rafi hit the ground next to me.

What are you doing on your back?

I ran into the damn tree. That last burst half blinded me.

I heard him chuckle in the dark. You okay?

I rolled over onto my stomach and maneuvered to get the tree between me and the onslaught of bullets I knew were coming.

Yeah, thanks for asking. Where’s the damn car?

It’s at the end of this olive grove, about fifty meters.

The guns cranked up again and we buried our heads in the dirt at the base of the olive tree. I heard the bullets passing through the leaves over our heads seconds before the ground turned to gelatin from a massive explosion. I turned over and saw the flaming wreck of what used to be the car Rafi borrowed to get us to the Syrian border.

They got the car. What the fuck do we do now?

Plan B, my friend, Rafi said.

What the fuck is Plan B?

The river.

Where is it?

It’s over there about a hundred meters, he said pointing to our left.

His face and pointing hand flickered red from the reflection of our burning car fully engulfed in flames as more bullets chewed up the ground around our olive tree.

Fuck, the fire’s painting us. They can see us.

I was talking to myself. Rafi had bolted up and had a three-step head start in the direction of the river.

Come on, Angus, we can make it! he yelled over his shoulder.

Rafi maintained a full sprint three meters in front of me. Bullets chewed up our footprints as soon as we made them, all the way to the river. Rafi slowed a bit, and then disappeared through a stand of trees that lined the riverbank. I kept up my own speed and felt the prickly slap of branches on my face as I busted through. Then I was falling.

The riverbank wasn’t high above the water, but the situation had slowed my perception and it felt like I was falling from a tall building. I hit the cool water and clutched my twenty-pound backpack with an iron grip. I thought of my video gear, iPad, and iPhone. I had packed it all in plastic just as Rafi had suggested, but I couldn’t help worrying that all the footage I’d risked my life to get might be ruined.

I put the thought out of my mind as my head broke the surface of the water. I looked around for Rafi and saw his wet curls disappear under the water in front of me. The fire from our car made distorted shadows through the trees as we floated by them. I took a deep breath and dunked my own head as the first barrage of bullets skipped off the water. All we could do was hold our breath and hope they couldn’t get a bead on us.

I positioned my backpack between my legs and hugged my knees as my body floated down the river at a frustratingly slow pace with my back barely cresting the surface. I figured if I got shot, it probably wouldn’t be in the head.

I leaned back and took a breath of air every ten count as I went through a brief mental checklist and couldn’t come up with one thing I could do to improve my situation, except maybe rub the fur off a rabbit’s foot. But I didn’t have a rabbit’s foot. All I had was a two-thousand-year-old gold statuette in my pocket. So I rubbed that instead. Mostly just to make sure it was still there. I figured if it was still in one piece after two thousand years, there had to be some luck left in it somewhere.

* * *

Our pursuers didn’t chase us into Lebanon. They stopped firing at us a couple of minutes after we hit the water. Rafi and I floated down the river for about twenty minutes after we had crossed the border from Syria into northern Lebanon. Rafi grabbed ahold of a rebar ladder rung embedded into a cement piling at a small pier we floated toward and reached out to grab me as I came by. We pulled ourselves from the water and walked down an adjacent dirt road, leaving wet footprints behind us.

The Assad regime had kicked out all foreign journalists in November 2011 and had not issued any press visas since then. The only way in or out was by smuggling routes. Journalists, along with western aid workers, faced kidnappings, mortars, barrel bombs, and possible beheadings. The country had earned its gruesome reputation as the most dangerous place in the world for journalists and aid workers alike. Rafi and I had just experienced some of that danger first hand.

What the hell do we do now?

Do not worry. I’ve got you covered, he said.

Rafi pulled his cell phone, wrapped in a plastic bag, from his pocket, checked to make sure it still worked, and was soon speaking to someone in Arabic. He ended the short conversation and pocketed his phone.

Okay, we have someone coming for us. He’ll be here in a few minutes.

Damn, Rafi, you know everyone in Lebanon.

Whenever I make these runs, I always have someone waiting for me on the other side in case of this very circumstance. How is your camera? Good idea to wrap it in plastic?

Yeah, the camera, phone, and iPad all survived. Good call on the plastic, I said and pulled the gold statuette from my pocket. And I didn’t lose this either.

I handed the artifact to Rafi. He took it and illuminated it with his cell phone’s screen to get a close look at it.

It’s a nice example. Do you have someone who can authenticate it?

Yeah, I know a guy in New York who would know all about it and I’m sure he’d love to salvage as much as he can from the fighting.

You must be careful, Rafi said, handing me back the artifact. There are stiff penalties if you’re caught with that. Someone would love to snag a hotshot journalist trying to smuggle that out of the country.

I know, don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.

Yeah, but do you have a Plan B? Rafi chuckled.

Chapter 2

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

New York

May 6, 2013

Where did you say you got this?

A Syrian man who said he was a museum curator had an intermediary give it to me to get my attention and lure me to the story.

My friend, Paul, looked up at me and then went back to scrutinizing the small gold artifact in his hands with a jeweler’s monocle. After a minute’s inspection, he put the small statue of what looked to be a king sitting on a small throne on his desk and pulled back a few feet from it. We both stared at it for a few seconds.

Well? Is it real?

My friend didn’t say anything, but wheeled himself in his office chair to a specific spot at his floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind his desk. He scanned the shelves, pulled down a large volume, and laid it on the desk so I could see it. The cover read: Artifacts of the Middle East. He flipped through the pages and stopped on a picture of the exact figure that stared back at us on his desk.

That’s him, he said, pointing to our old, silent friend.

So this guy is legit, huh?

How many pieces did your guy say he had on offer?

He said he had a whole museum’s worth of stuff, from big stuff like statues as big as horses to small stuff like this little guy.

How in the hell would anyone get it out of the country?

I had to smuggle myself in and out and that was difficult enough. He was interested in contacting someone who could figure that out for him in exchange for weapons.

My friend looked at me for a second. He doesn’t just want to get the artifacts out of the country?

Yes, but he wants to trade them for weapons.

Paul put his hands on his head, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling for a second. These guys are pretty desperate, huh?

It’s unbelievable, was all I could say.

I didn’t feel like getting into too much detail. I just needed his professional opinion.

Paul picked up a pen from his desk and jotted down a first name and a phone number from memory on a purple Post-it Note and handed it to me.

What’s this?

It’s a guy I know who can probably get you in touch with someone who could get your friend’s stuff out in one piece.

I looked at the Post-it: "Bill," followed by a phone number. The number’s local.

He knows people. He can get things done all over the world. He saved stuff from Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya. I know he has contacts in Turkey and Lebanon, probably Syria, too. He just hasn’t shared that with me. He’s offered us stuff before, but we can’t do business with him.

Why not?

Because we’re the freakin’ Met. We can’t be caught with hijacked artifacts.

What makes you think, I waved the Post-it Note in my hand, old Bill here will talk with a journalist about any of this?

It’s his business. I’m sure if you promise to keep his anonymity, he’ll set something up and you’ll get a good story out of it. I assume that’s what you’re after?

I folded and then pocketed the Post-it. Thanks, I said and pointed to the statue. So, I guess you don’t want to keep him?

Of course I want to. But I can’t. It’s contraband. I can’t get caught with it and neither should you. Give it to Bill as a down payment and proof of what he can expect. Tell him I sent you and it checks out.

I reached over, grabbed the statuette, and put it in my pants pocket. Thanks for your time, Paul.

Anytime. Thanks for letting me handle it. It’s rumored that Alexander the Great had one just like it as a good luck charm. It’s possible it could be that exact one. Either way, I hope it brings you luck while you have it. Be careful, some of these guys in this business don’t seem dangerous but they are.

I headed for the door on my way out. I think I can handle some art smugglers after the last few weeks.

Yeah, I bet. How was it there?

It was more horrible than I’d ever anticipated.

How so?

I guess I wasn’t prepared to see all the civilian casualties. And not just civilians, but the kids. It was the kids. I spent some time in a neighborhood there and got pretty close with a few families. I saw a lot of people get killed and too many kids. I’ve seen a lot of death in my work, but I’ve never gotten used to seeing the tears and wailing when a five-year-old boy realizes his parents are dead and never coming back, or the pleading look an eight-year-old girl gave me as she was lying in the street, screaming for someone to help her after her legs were blown off.

As I spoke, I became aware that I was staring at a spot on the floor trying to block out the images of the rows of dead children lying in the dirty street, parents and siblings wailing over their little lifeless bodies.

That’s unbelievable. I empathize with their situation.

What a ridiculous thing to say. But what do you expect of him except to sit there and act empathetic. What else can he do?

I do, too. But there’s not much that empathy can do for these people. The only thing that can really help is to get as many of them out of there as possible. That’s the only reason I’m going back. Maybe your guy, Bill, can help me trade these artifacts for some help with that.

Well, if there’s anyone who can work that out, I bet Bill can. Good luck, my friend. Stay safe.

I’ve got to go back. I can’t be one of those people only offering useless empathy. They need real help. 

Chapter 3

New York City

May 8, 2013

I spent two days editing and then selling the footage that survived the Syrian ambush and my trip down the Al Assi River with Rafi. I told the producer who bought it that I’d be going back for a second part. He seemed interested enough in a continuation and said his network would buy it if it was as good as what I had just given him. I didn’t tell him about my plans to do business with Bill, but figured he’d be thrilled to have an inside view of what was going on in Syria, no matter the subject, since there hadn’t been any network journalists there since Assad kicked them out almost a year and a half prior.

Bill was as shady as Paul had described. He never answered his phone when I called him. He always had me leave a message and called me back from a different phone number each time we spoke. But he was able to confirm that he had buyers for any Middle Eastern artifacts I could get out of Syria. He also assured me that, with twenty-four hours notice, he could have whatever I needed in the way of medicine, food, water, and transportation for a few hundred kids from Al-Waer at the Lebanon border to trade for the delivery of the artifacts. The good doctor wants guns, but he’s going to get aid instead.

Of all the things Bill and I tentatively arranged, the one thing that kept replaying in my head over and over was his final comment to me, These supplies you requested in return for artifacts are very expensive. The people who get things for me at the other end don’t run a charity organization. They play hard ball, Mr. Conn. If you can’t get the artifacts to the border, you get nothing. No trucks, no supplies, no security.

* * *

I was on my computer booking my one-way coach ticket to Beirut when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered it anyway. I should have known better.

Is this Angus Conn?

Who’s calling?

I’m Bernie Sheffield, a talent agent.

Who gave you my phone number?

Let’s just say a mutual friend.

I don’t have any friends. Who gave you my number?

Bobbie.

Why would she think I need a talent agent?

No, it’s nothing like that. She and I were at this thing yesterday and she said you’d be a good choice for prepping my client for his next role.

Oh yeah? I chuckled. Who’s your client?

Jake Westin.

Jesus Christ.

Not quite, but he thinks he is sometimes. Anyway, he’s just agreed to take a role about a badass foreign correspondent in the Middle East.

A badass, huh? Did you tell him that they don’t exist, except in the movies?

Come on, you’re one of the most successful freelance journalists with over twenty years of experience, covering hot spots all over the world, and the Pulitzer for your reporting on the Israeli invasion of southern Lebanon in 2006. Those credentials definitely put you in the badass category whether you admit it or not.

I think you ought to try somewhere else. Besides, I have an assignment. I’m leaving the country in the next couple of days for about a month.

The timeframe’s perfect. Where are you headed?

I don’t typically talk about my works in progress and getting to where I’m going may not be exactly legal.

Well, I’m in a big bind here. I’ve contacted producers from all the major networks and none of them are able to accommodate our request. The security requirement to send a celebrity anywhere remotely dangerous is just not feasible and they wouldn’t even begin to discuss footing the insurance cost they would need to have in place for the preparation Jake needs.

And what preparation does Jake think he needs?

He needs to shadow an experienced journalist on overseas assignments, preferably someplace hot but not too hot, if you know what I mean.

Well, hot and too hot is usually not in anyone’s control.

All we need is Jake getting an appreciation for the risks you take in the normal course of your job, but I don’t want him to get killed doing it. Anyway, all the networks suggested I get in touch with a freelance journalist who may be able to access places that are a bit too dicey for the networks to cover. And then I met Bobbie, and she mentioned that you were putting together a plan that needed some funding and may be interested in showing my guy the ropes for the right price.

Well, that was nice of her to think of me, but she was wrong.

I get it, Mr. Conn. No one wants to babysit some prima donna, but he made three movies last year. They all sucked, but they each made him a lot of money. He’s interested in changing his image. He’s willing to work and get dirty to prepare for this next role.

Look, I have a very specific story I’m running down that begins in Lebanon and will require me to cross a certain border to the north for most of it.

Sorry, my geography is a little sketchy outside of L.A. or Manhattan. What country is it exactly?

I rolled my eyes. It’s Syria, Bernie, and it’s probably too hot for a celebrity right now.

"It’ll be a game changer for him and he’s willing to pay top dollar. One month getting an appreciation for what you do